Pressure Points
by mjm1996
Summary: Sequel to "The Fall." With Jim Moriarty alive and well and back in London, Sherlock has to figure out how to keep his family - and himself - from falling into a twisted, deadly game. But as secrets are revealed and his dark past is brought to light, Sherlock needs some help before his entire life unravels right before his eyes.
1. Chapter 1

**Here we are again, friends...Hope you enjoy! xx**

* * *

She took a deep breath, moving forward to the music, rolling her eyes. She was too old for this. A pudding and a party hat would've done, really, but everyone insisted on this big party on a hot, somewhat muggy June day, so the show had to go on.

She kept moving along, but her joints still ached, her handkerchief was mysteriously missing, and her second-best horse was laying down in the grass, refusing to move, a good prediction – or omen – of how the day would be going.

"Are we there yet?" she hissed, then immediately apologized. "I'm so sorry, it's just so hot out here."

"Your Majesty, we would've fanned you if you had said something," the Prime Minister responded, somewhat garbled through his attempts to not move his lips.

"Just get me there, Prime Minister," Her Majesty responded, not moving her lips either.

When she finally got to her official seat, and after some more hullabaloo she didn't really pay attention to, the Queen sat there, listening to announcements and excitement about her 65th year of reign – only 5 more and it would be the Platinum Jubilee. She sat there, her usual poker face enabled, wondering if it would be impolite to grab a biscuit of her handbag. She had been there 65 years, the Commonwealth had had plenty enough dazzle and enchantment from her, she thought. Still, she sat there, her best stiff upper lip trying not to curl into any display of emotion. Too much emotion, she was weak. Too little – or of the wrong kind – she was cold. So it was just best not to show any.

In the crowd among the street, detective Sherlock Holmes was leaning against a guardrail, impatiently drumming his fingers. His wife, Emily, was holding their son – little Benjamin – up so he could see all the pageantry. Benjamin was the one who had begged to go in the first place; he was hoping to get a chance to meet the Queen and to see what she carried in that handbag of hers. "Probably biscuits," he had said. "If I was a grandmother, that's all I'd carry."

Next to him, up in the air as well, was little Sophie Lestrade, only three years old, resting in her mother's arms, her father looking on happily.

"Benjamin, Mummy's arms are tired," Emily pleaded.

"Is it cause you're knocked up?" Benjamin asked, making Molly Lestrade burst into an awkward fit of laughter that eventually stopped when she almost dropped her own child.

"Who taught you to say that?" Emily questioned the boy.

"Daddy…he said it would bother you and that it would be funny."

"Sherlock," Emily called, rolling her eyes, making a mental note to scold her husband later. She stepped towards him, their child still in her hands. "I think it's your turn again."

"Hmmmm…" was the only response.

"Vatican cameos!" she shouted loudly in his ear, making the detective jump up in the air, frantically moving his head back and forth, looking for any signs of danger.

He eventually figured out what was going on, grabbing his little boy happily. "Sorry, just thinking…" he mumbled.

"Daddy…" Benjamin started, grabbing of tuff of Sherlock's hair and pulling it aside to whisper in his father's ear.

"I see…" Sherlock replied, pretending to think. He then approached Molly and Greg Lestrade with Benjamin and requested that Sophie be put down, per a nameless gentleman caller's request.

Molly agreed, setting her child down as Sherlock did the same. "I'll watch them like hawks," he mouthed.

All four adults watched as Benjamin walked over to Sophie, waving hello. She greeted him with a shy wave back, saying in her own soft-spoken, cheerful way – much like her mother's – "Hi, Benny."

They were watched for some time, both just standing next to each other. Then, right as the festivities were about to officially begin, Benjamin slyly and swiftly took one step closer to the girl, quickly planting a kiss on her cheek, then stepping back as if nothing had happened.

Everyone, including Sherlock, was waiting for Sophie's reaction. She finally stepped closer to Benjamin, quietly stating to the boy, "I like you." She then put her hand in his, a proud Benjamin looking up at his father.

"Aww," all the adults – except for Sherlock this time – cooed.

"He got it from me," Sherlock whispered to his wife, kissing her on the cheek and patting her newly pregnant stomach.

"You wish," she replied. "Look." She pointed up at the big screen right above their heads. "The Queen's about to make her speech."

"And I have to get back to ignoring the Queen's speech," Sherlock retorted.

She hit him playfully on the arm, smiling, then directed her attention to the screen above her.

"In my 65th year of ruling the truly Great Britain, I look back at this time as one of reflection," the Queen began, acting rather regal and still rather bored.

"She sounds sick, doesn't she?" Molly whispered to Emily, who nodded in agreement.

"We have had an exceptional year in many ways. The economy has been more stable than….Oh, sod it," she said, rolling her eyes and making the crowd audibly gasp. Sherlock was still off in his mind palace, not even paying attention.

The Queen then threw off her gloves, the Prime Minister and Mycroft Holmes both rushing to her side. "Get your hands off of me!" she commanded, pushing them both back with incredible force. "Now, drumroll, please…." She looked around, waiting on a completely silent London.

"I said a drumroll, dammit!" That got their attention. With enhanced theatricality and showmanship, the Queen calmly removed her tiara, then, to the crowd's horror, her wig.

"She's bald!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Oh, nothing gets past you," Emily mumbled, making Molly awkwardly laugh once more.

They looked back up at the screen, just in time for the piece de resistance. The Queen, very carefully and delicately pulling at her neck, removed a complete mask from her head, leaving the crowd screaming and gasping in horror.

"Oh, my God," Emily whispered. "No. No. It can't be." She began to shake Sherlock. "Look!"

Sherlock looked up to the screen to find Jim Moriarty standing there in a dress, calmly watching the crowd descend into chaos as the Armed Forces tried to catch him. He simply put on a gas mask, and then took out a canister of mustard gas, releasing the pin so everyone in the general vicinity was knocked out cold, including Mycroft. He then threw the canister behind him, coolly grabbing the microphone.

"Miss me?" he confidently asked, grinning, then snapped his fingers. Many men – all high-ranking Parliament members – came out from behind the stage in gas masks as well, seemingly following their leader as he happily bounced off stage like a puppy, with no one who was still awake daring to touch him.

About six kilometers away, a crowd gathered as Sherlock Holmes was lying in the middle of the sidewalk, passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's eyes popped open exactly 3 minutes later, a concerned Emily patting his face gently.

"Should I poke him?" he heard Benjamin ask amid the roar of sirens.

"I'm – I'm good," Sherlock clarified, trying to stagger to his feet. He then looked to his wife, observing the look of horror on her face and on the faces of those gathered around them. He closed his eyes once more, gently sighing. "I suppose there is no chance that what just happened was all just a horrible, horrible nightmare, is there?"

"No," Emily replied softly, helping him to finally get back on his feet. "You know where he'll be going."

"Yes," he said queerly and slowly, thinking. He turned to Molly. "Can Emily and Benjamin stay with you and Lestrade for a while?"

Molly nodded solemnly, not quite sure what to make of this situation. An overwhelming majority of those who could actually stop Moriarty were still knocked out cold a few kilometers away and her husband was trying his best to get to all the chaos through all the panicked traffic.

"Sherlock, you're not going there by yourself," Emily stated, almost as if it were both a commandment and a question.

"You've heard what this man is capable of. Try seeing it," he replied, rubbing his head. "I just…need to go. By myself."

"You know where I keep my gun," she whispered, grabbing him in a tight embrace. "Don't do anything stupid. Remember, you have three people to look out for now," she said, trying to smile.

He gave no reply, only smiling at her in return. He kissed Benjamin on the head and then stepped away to hail a cab. Everyone watched, in a daze as he, like a soldier, went off to fight yet another war.

He stepped into 221B cautiously, looking around suspiciously with his wild eyes, eyes that suddenly seemed to have a dash more of yellow in the irises.

Mrs. Hudson was gone, probably off celebrating the anniversary with a drink. Lord only knew what Moriarty had done with the Queen; the other, unwitting members of the royal family were all passed out in front of the stage in downtown London.

He walked into his flat, kicking the door open, his own gun already in his hands, retrieved from the flower vase downstairs.

"Oh, what is this, Charlie's Angels?" Moriarty asked, standing in front of a boiling kettle. "I've had plenty of chances to kill you over the past six years. Don't you think I would've done it by now?"

"You always liked to play with your food," Sherlock pointed out, aiming his gun at Moriarty.

"True," Moriarty shrugged. "I hope you don't mind." He gestured over to the hissing kettle.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

"Cute family," Moriarty commented. "I didn't think you had it in you. I was kind of hoping you would save yourself for me," he joked, taking the kettle off the stove and pouring the hot water into two tea cups. "And I know you don't have that in you, either," he said, nodding his head towards the gun in Sherlock's hands.

"Oh, but I do," Sherlock answered, cocking his gun.

"Oh, you couldn't kill Magnussen, what makes you think you could kill me? You love me too much. Admit it, you have missed this, me and you." He took a sip of his tea, offering Sherlock the other cup.

Sherlock ignored the offer, keeping his gun pointed at the man. "How do you know about Magnussen?"

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. You forget – I know everything. I see everything."

"You put him up to it," Sherlock accused.

"No, I didn't. I just made a phone call. I just asked one question – where, oh, where has sweet little Maria gone?" he said, mockingly sing-song. "Doesn't matter now. Magnussen's dead. Frankly, I'm kind of glad. Even for me, he was a little disgusting." He made a face. "I heard what he did to your wife. Oooh. That ruined him for me."

"Why…would you care?" Sherlock questioned.

"Believe it or not, I care about some things. Okay, a few things. Mostly myself," Moriarty conceded.

"What happens now?" Sherlock wondered. "I can't play this little game anymore. I'm too old. I'm a father now."

"Awww, Sherlock…." Moriarty mocked. "My little ice princess turned out to have a warm heart. They could make a Disney movie out of you." Another sip of tea. "Relax, Sherl. Why so tense? Like I said, if I wanted to kill you by now, I would've. But I have another interest in you now."

"You're going to hurt my family," Sherlock deduced.

"No, I won't, I promise. Pinky swear." He mockingly held up his little finger. "Darling, my interest in you runs deeper than you know," he whispered. "It's like fate, you and me."

"I will do anything to protect my wife and children. Anything," Sherlock emphasized.

"Children?" Moriarty asked, a sick smile forming on his face. "The wife is preggers again?"

"If you hurt her…" Sherlock threatened.

"Oh, I would never do that," Moriarty replied. "She's beautiful. So beautiful, do you know that?"

"Yes, I do."

"You won't kill me."

"No, I won't," Sherlock admitted, setting the gun down on the coffee table. "I won't stoop to your level, at least not yet." He sighed deeply. "I'll make a deal with you. Leave my family alone and I'll let you do what you want. I won't try to stop you. If the police do, that's one thing, but I won't. I'm too old for this," he repeated.

"You really would do anything," Moriarty interrupted.

"But if anything happens to my family, I'll kill you myself," Sherlock finished. "And trust me, I've thought about it. I'm a little disappointed I didn't get to do it the first time," he whispered.

"All in good time," Moriarty promised. "We'll get our fairy tale ending, don't you worry."

"How'd you do it?" Sherlock asked.

"Plastic bullets. Used a look-a-like body in the morgue. You and I are too much alike. I have to admit, though, for a while there, I thought you really did it. You got me good," he said, wagging a finger at Sherlock.

"Why'd you do it?"

"I wasn't really going to kill myself, Sherlock, please. I just needed you to think I did so you would, too. It was a pretty beautiful ending, and I was going to leave it that way until I found out that you were faking. You just didn't know that I was faking, too." He smiled a devilish smile. "You and I were just so meant to be. I thought that before, but now..."

"What are you –" Sherlock was cut off by feet running up the stairs. It was Special Forces units, all with guns and bullet proof vests, led by Mycroft.

"At least let me finish my tea," Moriarty complained.

"Shut up," Mycroft commanded, putting handcuffs on Moriarty's wrists.

"Kinky," Moriarty commented.

As he was being led out, Moriarty suddenly stopped when he saw who was at the bottom of the stairs. A worried Emily was standing there, talking to Lestrade. Moriarty simply stopped in his tracks, staring.

"What is he doing?" she whispered to Lestrade.

"I have no idea," the man replied.

"Come on," an officer urged Moriarty, who reluctantly kept walking.

* * *

After the Queen was discovered to be safe and sound, Moriarty and his "associates" were put on trial, some even being sentenced to death. Even Moriarty couldn't escape a prison sentence this time. He got five years and a deportation after he was to be released.

With Moriarty behind bars, Sherlock and Emily relaxed somewhat, even though they still looked around every corner, expecting someone.

One day in mid-August, right as they were about to find out the sex of their new baby, Emily had taken Benjamin and little Sophie to the movies, something musical and fluffy and cartoon-y.

As they sat down in their seats, popcorn and candy in both children's hands, Emily darted her eyes across the room, making mental note of where all the exits were.

"Should I sit between you two?" Emily asked the children, who still held hands everywhere they went.

"Mum…" Benjamin scolded, almost like an embarrassed teenager on his first date.

Emily rolled her eyes, settling in her chair and eventually dozing off into a restless sleep.

Halfway through the movie, she felt a tiny hand shaking her awake. She jumped in her seat, moving her head around rapidly. "What is it?" she hissed.

"Mummy…there was a man, watching us," Benjamin explained.

"Oh, my God," Emily whispered. "We have to get out of here. Now," she commanded, having the children gather all their things up as she wiped the obvious sweat from her brow.

She started walking along the aisle, pushing the children to walk faster.

"Lady, I can't see," she heard a male voice, Cockney accent, complain. She paused dead in her tracks, refusing to look, justifying that if it was Moriarty, he would've just used his natural Irish accent. People like that didn't care about being caught.

"Sorry," she mumbled, pushing the children along once again.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, near the exit, Benjamin pointed at a man standing in front of the theater. "Mummy, that's the man who was watching us."

Emily clenched her jaw, stepping up to the man who was dressed in the usual uniform of someone who worked at the theater.

"I know that's you," she stated, voice shaking.

"Ma'am?" she heard an Irish voice ask.

"Oh, my God. Help!" Emily shouted. "Help!"

The lights cut on immediately and Emily was face to face with an ordinary man who just happened to work at the theater. But instead of being relieved, Emily began questioning the man.

"Who are you working for?"

"I work at the cinema…" he replied, confused.

"No, no. It has to be James Moriarty," she accused.

"Who is that?" the man asked. "I just came here a couple of weeks ago from Ireland."

Emily froze into a manic smile. "This is not happening. Tell me who you work for!" she yelled.

The next thing she knew, she was in handcuffs, trying to justify her actions to a member of Scotland Yard.

Greg Lestrade came into the now empty theater, pushing past his fellow officers. "Sophie," he sighed, picking up his daughter. "How did you let this happen?" he asked Emily furiously.

"I thought – I thought it was James Moriarty. The children said someone was watching them," she explained. "It's all just one big mistake. I was trying to protect them."

"She's in luck," another officer explained. "The man she accused of watching them," – the officer pointed to the theater employee who was currently being put in handcuffs – "turned out to be a convicted child molester on the run from Ireland."

"Oh, my God!" Lestrade and Emily exclaimed.

Emily began to sob, rocking her son in her arms.

"So no charges then?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course not. We should give her a medal," the other officer replied. "A creep like that hanging about in children's movies...makes the skin crawl, doesn't it?"

"You have no idea," Lestrade answered, hugging his daughter.

When Emily and Benjamin returned home after an ice cream cone and a dozen apologies, Sherlock was waiting at the door of their flat. He silently picked their son up, cradling him like he was a baby once again, letting out a sigh of relief.

"Daddy, you're hurting me," Benjamin said after a moment.

Sherlock's only reply was some shaky, uneven laughter as he put his son down, examining the boy as if to make sure it was all real.

"I am so sorry," Emily apologized.

"Don't be," Sherlock replied, patting their son on the head. "You did catch a very bad man. But next time, let's keep our son out of it."

She nodded in agreement, sending Benjamin off to play while she and Sherlock talked.

"Moriarty has to have something to do with this," Emily began. "He has to."

"He's in prison and so are his associates. I recall getting rid of his entire network not too long ago," Sherlock replied.

"Why are you not worried?" she questioned. "Look at what just almost happened to our child. I don't care if he's locked up, he was alive this entire time. Of course he had plenty of opportunity to rebuild his network! You can't think a bunch of silly Parliamentarians are it, can you?"

"You need to calm down," Sherlock reminded her, running a hand through his hair. "You're pregnant. You need to calm down," he repeated.

"I will not calm down! And don't blame it on me being pregnant either!" She glared at him, grinding her teeth. "I think the only reason you aren't freaking out is because you think you have to be calm all the bloody time! Show some emotion every once in a while, would you?"

"What…do you want me to say?" he asked, sighing. "That I'm certain Moriarty is behind this? That I'm terrified every time I leave the house because I'm sure he has people out there, probably watching us? I don't know what his end game is, Emily. But we can't do anything about it. We have to just live our lives, because no matter what, if we moved, if we changed our names, whatever, he would probably find us. So it's best just to stay calm because we literally cannot do anything else."

"We have children," she said, biting her lip. "What if he hurts them?" she whispered quietly, beginning to tear up. "You can't tell me you would be fine if something happened to Benjamin or the new baby."

"He gave me his word he wouldn't hurt them."

"And you believe him?"

"I promised I wouldn't get in his way this time. Whatever he wants to do, he can do it. I won't stop him. He breaks out of prison, he blows up London, whatever, I won't be there to stop him. In exchange, we're safe," Sherlock explained.

"You would let people die for a promise he probably won't keep, anyway? Sherlock…"

"It's better than nothing," he reasoned. "And yes, I would," he admitted. "I would let the world burn if it meant you and our children would be safe."

"But if the world is burning, would we even…want to be here? Is that the kind of world you want for us, for John and Mary, for Molly and Lestrade, for Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson? Think about it," she prompted. "Sherlock Holmes is not the kind of man to just sit back and let the world descend into chaos."

"Emily, I went over this with Moriarty. It's someone else's fight now. I'm too old. I'm tired. I just want to solve a nice murder here and there and to spend time with my wife and children."

"Sherlock, you're only forty," she reminded him.

"I feel older," he replied. "At least too old for Moriarty's games. It was sort of fun when I was younger, when I didn't have much to worry about, but now, I have responsibilities. Watching our whole life almost fall apart a few months earlier put things into perspective," he muttered.

"I just want you to think about what you're doing. The Sherlock Holmes I know would be thinking of a creative way to nip all of this in the bud before it ever even happened. Use that big brain of yours," she prompted. "The world doesn't have to burn for anyone."

He closed his eyes, thinking, rocking his head back and forth as if he were quite literally rattling his brain. He just couldn't figure out why Moriarty would be back now. What did he want?


	3. Chapter 3

**Perhaps the darkest chapter I've ever written. You have been warned.**

* * *

Later that same month, Sherlock and Emily actually threw a party at their flat, a rare occasion. There were two reasons to celebrate this time: first, and perhaps most pertinent, Mary Watson had finally gone into remission. Secondly, the Holmeses were finally ready to announce the gender of their new baby.

After some food and a few toasts, the hosts stood up, in their usual, non-flashy way, ready to spill the beans.

"Not even Benjamin knows," Emily said, reaching for a sonogram behind her back.

"If he did, half of London would already know," Sherlock reasoned, giving his son an affectionate smirk.

Emily produced a sonogram, smiling, and held it up for the room to see. "It's a girl," she announced, grinning.

After a few "Awws" and some "Congratulations," the couple silenced the room once more.

"And here…is the other girl," she said, producing another sonogram to gasps as she and Sherlock knowingly smiled at one another.

"Of course Sherlock would have the freaky sperm," John Watson joked, making the whole crowd laugh as he made sure to capture his wife smiling like she hadn't in so long.

Sherlock and Emily let the party continue on as they sat there with their son, listening to his reactions about their announcement.

"Does that mean Mummy will get twice as fat?" was his first question.

Emily looked up from the piece of cake she was practically stuffing in her face. "Yes, yes it does," she answered, nodding.

"I didn't say it this time," Sherlock teased, squeezing his wife's hand as she leaned against him. "Now, Benjamin," Sherlock addressed his son, "you're going to be a big brother to two little sisters. Do you know what that means?"

"They can't touch my things," Benjamin replied.

"What did we tell you about sharing?" Emily scolded.

"Your mother's right. But you know what being a big brother means," Sherlock said sternly, looking his son in the eye. "You're going to have to watch out for your little sisters. It's just as much your job to protect them as it is mine and Mummy's. You're going to have be very gentle with them after they are born."

"But why?" Benjamin whined, sounding exactly like his father at any age. "They're girls."

"Sophie is a girl," Sherlock reminded his son. "You like Sophie."

"I love Sophie," Benjamin corrected. "She's pretty. I am going to marry her one day," he announced.

"We'll see," Sherlock laughed, rolling his eyes. "You have a long time to decide who you're going to marry."

"How did you pick Mummy?"

Emily leaned back, prepared to hear Sherlock's story.

"Ummmm, well…" Sherlock started, twisting his wedding ring around his finger. "I met your mother at my job."

"Mummy was a murderer?" Benjamin cut in.

"No," Sherlock replied. "I worked at an office then. Only for a little bit. I don't recommend it. The only good part about my job was the pretty girl who worked a few desks away. Mummy," he explained, taking a moment to look back at his wife with a knowing glance.

"That's it?" Benjamin wondered.

"I'm not done," Sherlock replied. "You have to be patient. Your mother would always find a way to talk to me."

"I liked him, too," Emily threw in.

"But whenever I got around her, I would be so nervous I couldn't speak," Sherlock added. "I thought she was so beautiful. She still is," he said, leaning back towards his wife to give her a quick kiss on the lips. "And one day, I finally just decided to be brave. I kissed her. And now we're married and we have you and your sisters."

Instead of hearing Benjamin's reply, Sherlock only heard a slow clap coming from the doorway of their flat. After hearing some of the guest's panicked reactions, he swallowed the cotton ball down deep in his throat, closing his eyes.

"That was beautiful, really," Moriarty complimented, walking in and cutting himself a piece of cake. "Oh, please, you all don't have to look so scared."

Lestrade immediately pulled out his cell phone, calling for backup, but one of Moriarty's associates bounced in, grabbing the man and holding a gun to his head.

Moriarty didn't seem to mind, settling down on the couch, wedging himself between Sherlock and Emily.

"You promised," Sherlock mumbled, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Oh, I'm not going to hurt anybody," Moriarty dismissed. "I'm just here for the party. Never could resist a good one. James Moriarty, hi," he introduced himself to a shell-shocked Emily, holding out a hand.

Emily hesitantly took his hand. "Hello," she greeted shakily.

"How did you get out?" Sherlock asked, shoving his hands into his pockets, then reversing the action, unsure of what to do with them.

"Now, Sherlock," Moriarty said, his mouth full of cake, "if I tell you that, they'll know what my game plan is the next time I bust out. I need a holiday every once in a while," he explained to Emily, who was grasping her son by the shoulders with a death grip.

"And who's this?" Moriarty wondered, nodding to Benjamin.

"Don't. Touch. Him," Emily warned.

"Feisty. A little bossy, but that's probably cause you knocked her up, eh, Sherlock?" Moriarty patted Sherlock on the back, reaching behind the man, holding his hand out for a drink from Mary Watson.

Instead of giving Moriarty her drink to wash his cake down with, Mary simply threw her wine in his face, indignant.

"You don't scare me," she declared. "I've faced a lot worse things than you."

"Oh, every crowd has one. The hero," Moriarty mocked, setting his plate down on the coffee table, jumping up.

John Watson got in front of his wife immediately.

"Johnny Boy, it's been too long," Moriarty greeted. "Too long. Don't worry about your wife, please. Remember, I don't get my hands dirty. She did ruin my suit, though. I'm a tish bit pissed."

"Well, then, get pissed, but you can't do anything about it as long as I'm standing in front of her," John replied.

"I don't know about that." Moriarty snapped his fingers, and in one clean shot coming from his associate, Mary Watson was on the floor.

"Oh, my God!" Emily shouted, beginning to sob. "Oh, my God. Sherlock, do something."

"You know I can't," he replied, his voice shaking. "You know I can't."

"I don't care!" Emily screamed. "Mary…" She ran over to her friend, a catatonic John Watson holding his dying wife's hand while Moriarty attempted to wipe the blood off his suit with a handkerchief.

"Where did it hit her?" Emily asked John. "John!" she shouted, slapping the man back into reality.

"It hit me in the chest, near my heart and probably my most…important veins and arteries," Mary answered, her voice strained by the blood coming up her throat. "It's over, Emily. It's over. I fought the good fight and I die from a bloody bullet wound." She laughed at the painful irony. "It's over."

"No, don't say that," Emily whispered. "No. John," she commanded, "you're a doctor, do something."

"What is there to do?" John asked, sobbing. "Like she said, it's over."

A panicked Emily looked around, searching the room for help. "What good are you people for?" she shouted. "Molly, there must be something you can do, please."

"She's lost too much blood," Molly answered quietly, shielding her daughter's eyes.

"I'm not getting a mobile signal!" Mrs. Hudson cried.

"No, this is not how it's going to happen. Mary," Emily pleaded, then looked down as she saw Mary's lifeless eyes looking up as John Watson held her to him, sobbing against her corpse.

"Oh, my God, Mary," Emily wailed.

"That's it!" Sherlock shouted, jumping off the couch. "Benjamin, go stand with Sophie and Molly."

The boy did as he was told, not understanding what was happening.

"You," Sherlock screamed, grabbing Moriarty by his collar. "I should have killed you when I had the chance."

"I didn't hurt your family," Moriarty reminded him. "I kept my word."

"That was close enough," Sherlock hissed, putting his hands around Moriarty's throat, starting to strangle the man. "Molly, get the children out of here!"

Molly started to leave but was stopped by the man who currently held a gun to her husband's head. Molly practically growled, her nostrils flaring, and in one fell swoop, knocked the gun out of the man's hand, kicking him in the groin, giving Lestrade enough time to grab it and turn it on his attacker.

"See, those self-defense classes weren't a waste of €100," Molly mumbled, running outside with the two children to call for help.

"You don't want to do this, Sherlock," Moriarty strained. "We had an agreement."

"Lestrade – toss me your gun!" Sherlock ordered. "Strangling might result in a jail sentence."

"You don't even want to know my secret?" Moriarty wondered. "You know I have one."

"What?" Sherlock growled, shaking the much smaller man.

"Look at your wife and then look at me. Look at her and then look at me. Where am I from? Where is her mother from?" Moriarty wondered.

"You're lying."

"Am I really?" Moriarty teased. "Won't that bother you to know that your children have a little bit of me in them? Uncle Jim." Sherlock began to strangle the man harder than before, intent on his action. "Sherlock, this is exactly how I want you to remember me. I thought, 'Why kill myself when Sherlock could do it?' You've given me my perfect ending. Forget the fairy tales, this is a Shakespearean tragedy and you're the star! Now go ahead and finish the job! Give me my perfect ending," Moriarty directed, coughing and gasping for air.

Sherlock complied, snapping Moriarty's neck with one motion and watching his lifeless body drop down on the floor before coolly walking away. "Get Molly in here," was all he said.

* * *

**Yes, Moriarty is dead, for real this time. No takesy-backsies. And yes, Sherlock really did kill him, in quite a vicious way I may add. And the answer to the big question, yes, Moriarty and Emily are related. The plot really won't make a whole lot of sense yet, but I'm trying to make it a bit like an actual Sherlock episode where you have to watch it all through and really pay attention for it to all come together. All the loose ends will be tied up, promise. Now, please go get some rest and recover from whatever emotional shock I just put you poor dears through...xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for the lovely reviews! Sorry it took me so long to update...school has been insane, but I'm on break now so hopefully I can crank out a few chapters this week. By the way, I don't know why I didn't say this before, but this story (and particularly this chapter) will make absolutely no sense if you haven't first read its prequel, The Fall (here's what you need to type in after the .net: /s/9886287/1/The-Fall. Anyways, hope you guys enjoy!**

* * *

Three days after they had buried Mary, Emily quietly knocked on the door to Molly's lab at Bart's.

"Are you okay?" a concerned Molly asked.

"My husband's being held on murder charges, my son has nightmares of people dying, I'm pregnant, my best friend is dead, my other best friend won't talk to anyone, I'm quite possibly related to a mass murderer, and my back really hurts," was the response.

"I'm sorry," Molly replied, unsure of what to even say to Emily's words.

"No, I'm sorry for complaining," Emily apologized. "I'm taking Benjamin to his first therapist's appointment today. I just wish I didn't have to. But, things could always be worse." She tried her best to smile.

"When is Sherlock coming back?"

"We don't know. He gets a private cell, at least. But he still murdered a man," she said somberly, her eyes cast off into the distance.

"He'll probably get self-defense," Molly reassured her.

"It'll be hard to say self-defense considering he strangled Moriarty with his bare hands and then snapped his neck in two. Is that who you're looking at?" Emily jerked her head towards a covered corpse lying flat on the examination table.

"Yes," Molly answered.

"May I look?"

Molly obliged, lifting the sheet up slowly, stopping at Moriarty's bare chest.

"Is it really him?"

Molly nodded. "We're having a family member come identify him today to make sure this time."

"Which family member?" Emily wondered.

"His father."

"Should I even ask about the DNA test?"

"I haven't even looked at it, honestly. You'll know when I know. We can go ahead and just get it over with," Molly suggested.

"Let's," Emily agreed.

Molly went to her computer, typing in some numbers and letters while Emily held her breath. Moriarty had to be lying. It was all just a jab at Sherlock, it had to be.

When Emily heard Molly gasp, she closed her eyes. "It was true, wasn't it?" she whispered.

"It's true," Molly confirmed, looking sadly at Emily. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Emily lied, blinking over and over again in disbelief. What would Sherlock say?

"At least you're the good one," Molly reassured, her voice gentle and soothing.

"I have to go," Emily said, gathering her things and shaking her head, trying to make her thoughts all disappear.

As she went to leave, she bumped into a tall, larger man with graying black hair and glasses.

"I am so sorry," she apologized as the man bent down to help her pick up the contents of her handbag.

"No worries, love," the man responded, his Irish accent thick, cutting through the air like a knife.

When they were both getting their bearings about them, Emily braved a look at the man. Set deep in the man's kind, genial face were pair of crystal blue eyes, an exact copy of her own.

"Oh, my God," Emily muttered, rushing out the door before the man could even speak. She felt that day's lunch crawling up her throat, making her gag as she rushed towards the nearest trash can, being rolled down the hall by a custodian.

As she walked about London that afternoon, she felt as if she were trapped in her own head, her own worst nightmare, pounding against the walls, screaming to be let out. Why had Sherlock chosen her? Why not Molly, calm, sweet-natured Molly? Perhaps he had thought Molly to be too good, so he had simply settled for Emily, and as a result, his life had been turned topsy-turvy. Maybe Sherlock and John Watson had too much in common, she thought, maybe Sherlock was a little too much into the whole danger thing than he had led on. Maybe it's just what he liked.

After Benjamin finished up his appointment with the therapist that afternoon, Emily was asked into the older woman's office next, sitting down in a yellow chair three sizes too small.

"How is he, doctor? He won't tell me much, he's just like his father in that way," Emily noted.

"He seems fine. He's very mature for his age," the doctor responded. "He seems to understand what happened at your flat – well, as best a four year old can. He knows his…Aunt Mary won't be coming back, and that the 'bad man' hurt her, so his father hurt the 'bad man' in turn. He says his nightmares are about the 'bad man' coming back and hurting you and his father."

"I've tried to explain to him that M – err, the bad man, isn't coming back, either," Emily said nervously, wringing her hands.

"I know you aren't allowed to comment, but I must say, Mrs. Holmes, what your husband did to James Moriarty…he's a hero. He got rid of one of the biggest criminal nuisances England has ever seen. I'm surprised they haven't knighted him yet. I'm sure they'll let him go after all the legal hullabaloo is over with."

"I hope…" Emily replied, keeping her body posture rigid. "But do you think Benjamin will be okay?"

"Oh, yes, he'll be fine. Just keep reiterating the idea that the 'bad man' is not coming back, no matter what. That seems to be all he's worried about. He's perfectly cheery in every other respect. He's very excited to be a big brother, although he told me to keep that quiet," the therapist chuckled.

"Sounds like him," Emily laughed. "When do you want to see him again?"

"I'd say two weeks, just to make sure the nightmares are going away. I'd try to keep him busy," she said, getting up and showing Emily the door. "Take his mind off things."

"Will do. Thank you, doctor," Emily called on her way out.

"Oh, and Mrs. Holmes," the doctor responded, touching Emily's shoulder, "be sure to tell James Moriarty I said, 'Hello.'"

"What?" Emily exclaimed, looking for the exit that had suddenly seemed to disappear.

"Mrs. Holmes?" the doctor asked, snapping Emily back to reality. "I said, 'Be sure to not leave Benjamin alone' – he needs to spend time with you and other relatives to keep him stable and reassured."

"Thanks, doctor," Emily mumbled, grabbing Benjamin and heading straight out the door.

After unsuccessfully trying to call John Watson three times, Emily lay on the bed of the hotel she and Benjamin were staying at. Their flat was still being treated as a crime scene, and besides, no one would probably ever want to go back there, anyway.

She still expected a daily phone call from Sherlock, the only phone call he ever got.

"Well, buddy," she began, turning towards Benjamin, who was currently playing with an action figure, "what do you want to do tonight?"

"I miss Daddy," was the only response.

"I do, too, but he'll be back soon, I promise." Emily felt her phone vibrate over and over again, in succession. "I bet that's him right now."

She answered her phone, not even bothering to look at the number.

"Hello," an exhausted-sounding Sherlock greeted.

Emily put her hand against the receiving end of the phone. "It's Daddy!" she told her son excitedly.

"Daddy!" Benjamin exclaimed, reaching his hand out for the phone.

Emily could hear Sherlock laughing on the other line as Benjamin recounted his day, step by step, including every meal, every trip to the loo, and when he thought bath time would be.

"Can I talk to Mummy?" Emily heard Sherlock ask.

Benjamin reluctantly handed the phone over to Emily after telling Sherlock he loved him and would eat extra servings for him at dinner.

"Hello," Emily greeted, laughing at her son.

"Hello. How are my girls?" Sherlock asked.

"We're good. A little lonely, but good, considering."

"Well, they're wrapping up the investigation as we speak. There'll be no trial, and from what I can tell," he said, his voice growing hush, "I should be home in a few days, my record cleared."

"Really?" Emily whispered, trying to contain her excitement.

"Really."

"Should I start looking at new flats?"

"Nonsense. I'm sure once they're through with it, we can get it cleaned up and good as new."

"But Sherlock." Emily stepped out of Benjamin's earshot. "Two people died in that flat."

"The man who owned it before me died in there, too. It's still home. I intend to die in there, one day."

"You're so morbid…our best friend did die in there, though," she reminded him.

"Think about it. Would Mary want us to stop doing what we normally do?"

"No, she wouldn't."

"Alright then. Remember, we brought our child home from the hospital to that flat."

Emily knew Sherlock was still not one for sentimentality, but he felt some special connection to that flat for some reason. It had held some great memories for them – and one horrible one.

"Okay, we'll try it out," she agreed. "But if Benjamin has nightmares or green slime oozes from the walls, we're moving," she joked, trying to take both their minds off the present situation. She figured she would wait to tell him about the test results; the poor man was already in jail.

"I'm afraid I'll have to be going soon, Mycroft's giving me that look again," Sherlock sighed. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Of course," she replied.

"Please go check on John Watson. I'm sure he hasn't been answering your phone calls…" Sherlock paused. "He hasn't been answering mine, either."

Emily smiled. "How'd you get away with that?"

"I have my ways," Sherlock responded shiftily.

"Well, I will most certainly do that," Emily assured him. "I love you."

"And I love you. Give Benjamin a kiss from me, and a pat for our girls."

"Of course I will. But what about me?" She faked a pitiful tone in her voice.

"Alright, enough with the love-fest," Mycroft scolded, taking the phone away from Sherlock.

"Awww, we love you too, Mike," Emily cooed. "Did someone feel left out?"

"Don't. Call. Me. Mike," Mycroft fumed.

"Love you too, big brother. I'll be going now."

After dinner, she and Benjamin knocked on John Watson's door, Emily questioning whether or not she was making a mistake by bringing her son with her. A grieving husband wouldn't exactly be in the best of shape.

As she knocked over and over again, she began to call out her friend's name. "John. John. It's Emily. I brought Ben with me. We brought you dinner. Come on, open up, John."

With no reply, she used her key to their flat, balancing the bag of food with one arm. As she quietly stepped in, Ben falling behind her, she didn't know what to expect. She figured the flat would be a mess, but it was spick and span, and no sign of John.

"John?" she called out once more. She swore she could smell food different than what she had brought.

She made Benjamin wait in the living room as she crept towards the bedroom, food still in hand, expecting the worst. He couldn't have been stupid enough to do something to himself, she thought. That wasn't like John.

She heard some manner of noise coming from the bedroom and decided to knock on the door in case he was changing.

"John?"

She heard a faint "Yes" and opened the door right up, dropping her bag as soon as she looked into the room.

As it turned out, the "Yes" was not an invitation to come in, but rather the words coming from a woman's mouth as she was on top of John, her back towards Emily.

"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry," Emily said, slamming the door, knowing at least John had seen her. "Oh my God."

She walked rather swiftly back to the living room, ignoring the fact that she had dropped a bag of food all over the carpet.

"Ben, honey, we're leaving," she announced, grabbing her son's hand.

"Mummy, what were those noises? It sounded like Daddy was home for a minute."

"God." Emily put her face in her hands. "That's a talk for another day."

"Don't worry," Benjamin assured her, reaching up to pat her. "Uncle Mycroft told me about the birds and the bees a long time ago. I can explain it to you if I need to."

"I'm good," Emily reassured him. "But Uncle Mycroft might not be for long," she mumbled.

"Hello?" a voice asked, coming closer to the living room.

"John?"

"Yes – hello," he greeted, stepping into the room with only a t-shirt and pants on.

"I am so sorry," Emily apologized again.

"It's fine. Trust me, I've caught Sherlock in quite a few questionable situations myself. I always knew he needed my laptop for something other than Netflix…" John tried to joke.

Emily simply looked at him, grimacing. "Not good."

"Right. Well, thank you for dinner, but we actually just ate."

"I'd say," Emily muttered. "Who's your…friend?"

"Oh, um, I met her at the hospital actually. She was Mary's new nurse after, you know."

"Lovely," Emily noted sarcastically. "That's lovely. Benjamin Arthur, cover your ears," she commanded to her son, who immediately did so.

"You…cheated on Mary. You cheated on Mary when she had cancer. Am I getting this straight?"

"It's not that simple," John replied, looking down. "Not physically. Janine was just…support when Mary was so sick. I ended it when Mary went into remission. But then, with what happened Saturday…"

"Oh. Oh. That makes it all better. Your wife is barely in the ground and all you can think about is getting a new piece of ass," she scolded. "What would Mary think about this?"

"Mary's not here," he responded.

"No, she's not," Emily conceded. "I'm not a religious person, but if there is a heaven, I know Mary's in it, and I hope for her sake that she can't see what you're doing."

"Emily…."

"I'm just saying John – what would Mary think? She was one of the most laid back people I've ever known but I highly doubt she would be okay with you sleeping with some woman three days after her funeral…they just buried her, John. Not even a week ago." She shook her head.

"I was there," John reminded her. "But don't you think Sherlock would do the same if you died?"

"No, I don't," she replied quickly. "Not at all. He's Sherlock. I'm surprised he even married me."

"He's still a man."

"And quite good at it. He would never do this," Emily defended.

"I know about Magnussen. I know the entire story. I don't care if it was fake – you hurt Sherlock. You're no saint, either."

She swallowed the lump in her throat and stiffened her shoulders. "I did what I had to do. I would do it again," she said calmly.

"John?" she heard a female voice call. "I wasn't finished with you!"

"I'm going to take that as my cue to leave. Come on, Benjamin." Emily pulled at her son's hand, quickly rushing out of the flat before John even had time to reply.

As they stepped out into the dark street, hand in hand, Emily looked down at her son.

"What do you say we go back to the hotel and have a sleepover?" she asked her son as she walked along the street. "We can watch some movies and eat junk food and stay up past your bed time. You can even sleep with me tonight."

"Mummy – won't Daddy get mad if I stay up too late?" Benjamin wondered, struggling to keep up with his mother's steps.

"He won't," she promised, stopping to hail a cab. "Besides, I think Mummy needs this even more than you do," she said, her voice breaking as she opened the door to the cab.

When they got back to the hotel room, they did exactly as she promised, staying up until they both fell fast asleep at almost midnight, Emily making sure to clutch her little boy close to her, not even sure who she was trying to protect anymore.


	5. Chapter 5

**Yep, I went _there._**

* * *

A full week and a half after the fateful party, Emily was busy scrubbing the floor of 221B Baker Street along with Mrs. Hudson.

"I feel like all the scrubbing in the world wouldn't get this floor clean after everything that happened here," she noted, pressing down harder with her brush.

"It just takes time, dear," Mrs. Hudson reassured. "I lived in my house in Florida for years without knowing there were two bodies in the basement." She shrugged. "I'm sure, years from now, you won't even be thinking about this whole ugly mess."

"Maybe," Emily responded listlessly.

"Where are the girls going to sleep?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "Your flat only has two bedrooms. They can sleep in my spare I suppose…"

"We decided that for now they can just sleep in a bassinette in our room. Sherlock says we can add another room later on, but I don't know…I don't see why we just don't get a bigger, less…murder-y place."

"Oh, Emily, if that was the case, I might as well pack up my things and move, too. I've seen Baker Street without Sherlock Holmes and it just isn't the same." She shook her head and put her brush back into the bucket full of sudsy, lukewarm water. "My son never comes around. You and Sherlock and John and the children are all I have, really."

"Mrs. Hudson," Emily smiled. "You have my word that if we move, you'll be right next door, same as always. We couldn't do without you, either."

"Hello?" they heard a male voice ask.

"John!" Mrs. Hudson sprang up, going to greet the guest. Emily put her cleaning supplies down, struggling to get up.

John stepped over to her, offering a hand up. "No – no, I'm good," Emily told him, helping herself up with one hand on the back of the chair instead.

"Where's Ben?" John wondered.

"He's having a playdate with the little boy next door."

"Ah."

"I'll leave you two alone," Mrs. Hudson said, scooting out of the room.

"So – how's Janine?" Emily asked, a hint of mockery to her voice.

"You just cut straight to it, don't you? No, but she's good. I'm good," John answered.

"I'm sure you are," Emily replied, stepping past him and settling down on the loveseat.

"I'm sorry things didn't exactly go so well last time we saw each other," John apologized. "I suppose I crossed the line a bit."

"You did," was the reply.

"Well, I'm just doing what is best for me, and I think Janine is what's best for me right now."

"There's a joke somewhere in there," Emily noted wryly. "I'm sorry for jumping down your throat…but really, John…so soon after Mary? It's _barely_ been two weeks. Most widowers get a dog or some new friends or a hobby…not another woman. Especially not the woman who:

a). Nursed your wife back to health when she had cancer.

b). Sort of helped you cheat on your wife when she had cancer.

And oh yes, did I mention that Mary had cancer?!"

"You…just did it again, the whole jumping down my throat thing."

"I said I was sorry, not that I wouldn't do it again. I'm concerned for you, John. You know this relationship is never going to work. She's just a rebound. You're trying to get rid of your memories of Mary, good or bad, with another woman, and that can only last so long before reality kicks back in…You forget, Mary was my best friend, too. I know how it hurts."

"Exactly! You're trying to protect her memory! Why protect it when you can just start to forget it? I don't even remember what my wife tastes like, or what she smells like, and neither do I want to."

"That's your choice then, but I choose to remember her," Emily replied.

"I just want her out of my head," John said, his voice breaking. "It's just like when…Sherlock…Mary was there for me during all of that. Janine is just trying to do the same."

"John…" Emily stepped over to him and put her arms around him in a hug. "I'm sorry. I have been more than a little harsh with you. When one is grieving it's easy to think that you're the only person it all matters to, that no one else could possibly feel as you do. I miss her, John. We were supposed to drive up to Birmingham this weekend to look at baby furniture…" She closed her eyes. "I just keep thinking that she'll come back."

"Me too," John replied, returning the hug.

"Just give it time. You'll move on naturally, when you're ready to. No one bounces back from this kind of thing immediately."

"I know, I know."

Emily patted John on the shoulder, then stepped back, tears both in their eyes. "It'll be okay," she reassured him.

"It will be," John nodded, starting to smile as he caught Emily's eye. The next thing she knew, John's lips were on hers, engulfing her in sad fervency, the taste of salty tears comingling in their mouths. For a second there, she swore she seemed to be kissing him back as well, but one thought pulled her back to reality: Sherlock.

"John," she said, putting her hands flat against his chest and pushing him away. Her voice – which had been so attuned to the British tongue – suddenly got a taste of her southern accent once more. "Oh my."

"I am so sorry, really, I am," John started, hanging his head down.

She nodded slowly. "This never happened," she stated. "It never happened."

"I agree. Just a silly mistake." John tried to smile at her but her eyes didn't meet his gaze.

"Sherlock would kill you," Emily said.

"Yes, he would," John agreed.

"It was just a mistake between grieving friends," Emily reasoned. "I'm going to be blunt – I have no interest in…_that_. I love Sherlock."

"Oh, no – I know. I…don't either. Just it was in the moment…"

"Yeah." Another thing Emily would indubitably spend the rest of her life kicking herself around for. Great, she thought.

"And I kissed you, so it is my fault," John added.

"I coulda pushed you away faster," she mumbled.

"Emily – the whole thing didn't even last for fifteen seconds."

"That is fifteen seconds of broken marriage vows for me, added to a year when I have already broken most of the rest. 'World's Worst Wife,' hello," she introduced, waving a hand.

"Sherlock's not perfect," he reminded her.

"He is to me," she whispered. "And look at what I've done to him – the whole Magnussen business, this, being related to Jim Moriarty. I'm more trouble than I'm worth."

"Does he know that you and Moriarty are official brother and sister?"

"Not yet. I didn't have the heart to tell him. I might never and just leave him to his own conclusions. I think that would break him."

"That might be best," John concurred.

Standing immediately outside the door to their flat was Sherlock, who had been waiting patiently for twenty minutes before finally grabbing his coat and heading right back out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

**And there it is...**

* * *

On October 3, almost a month later, Emily sprang up in bed, looking at the clock. It was a Wednesday.

It was also Emily's 34th birthday, characterized by the absence of her husband throughout the entire day. He had not been there when she had woken up, and that night, after cake and some presents, he was still not there when she settled back into their bed.

He had given no explanation, no excuses. He was just not there. He had been acting rather funny lately, she had noticed. No matter what, however, she was not going to say a word to him about his absence. She wasn't really in a position to be criticizing anyone.

She and John had never again talked about what had happened between them that night. They just pretended it had never happened, and it was working. They were friends again and things were slowly getting back to normalcy. John had broken up with Janine and started seeing a therapist to help him through his grief. Emily was seven months pregnant, about to pop. And then there was Sherlock, who seemed anything but normal.

He had appeared to be fine on the surface, but something was nagging at the corners of Emily's mind. She saw it sometimes when Sherlock looked away, how forlorn his face would become. He rarely touched anyone, even his own wife and son, choosing instead to immerse himself in cases, the only thing that seemed to give him any energy anymore. When he came home from a case, he would be one of the happiest people she had ever seen, but that happiness was certainly not coming from anything at Baker Street. Perhaps something had happened to him when he was locked up, something he hadn't wanted to talk about. He had been kept very secluded, but one second could have changed everything.

As soon as Emily fell asleep that night, she was woken up by her husband coming in and taking a shower, probably due to being covered in blood or dirt or whatever else he got up to when he was out on a case. Maybe it had been an experiment.

Whatever the case, Emily was still seven months pregnant, with hormones raging out of control. It had been a while for her and Sherlock and the thought of him in the shower, letting the hot water run over his muscles and all of her other favorite places…She immediately formulated a plan, taking off her pajamas and getting back in bed, pretending to be sound asleep.

When he quietly walked into their bedroom a few minutes later, he slipped into their bed and tried his best to not wake her up. Whatever he did, she sprang up immediately, turning the lights on and sitting up in their bed, completely topless.

"When'd you get home?" she wondered, trying to sound as innocent as possible.

"When'd you get so…naked?" he replied. Despite his tone, she noticed his eyes had not moved from her chest since she had turned the light on.

"I decided I better sleep in my birthday suit tonight," she said coyly, being sure to bat her eyelashes in just the right way. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Have I ever?" he asked, smiling at her as he reached over to turn off the light.

A few minutes later, amidst some chuckling and kisses, Emily moaned her husband's name. "Sherlock. Mmmmm, Sherlock….Ow. Sherlock! I'm still pregnant! Ease up a bit. Ow! You're hurting me! Sherlock! Okay, get off me." With that she pushed him off of her, turning on the light and immediately putting a t-shirt back on.

"What the hell was that?!" she questioned. "You were way too rough."

"Funny, you didn't push John Watson away that fast," was the reply.

"What?! Was that some sort of test? That's sick!"

"You're ignoring the obvious."

"Okay, you saw, but Sherlock, it was just a bad time," she explained. "And that's no excuse for what you were just doing."

"I'm sorry, I guess I just don't know my own strength. Dammit," he whispered under his breath, turning around.

"What?" she asked, walking over to him. "Turn around." Before he could reply, she was already turning him to face her.

"Oh, my God," she said upon examining his appearance. "How did I not catch it?"

He said nothing, indignantly trying to cover up his nosebleed.

"That's why you were acting that way. You really don't know your own strength right now, do you? How long has this been going on?"

"I should've used the syringe," he mumbled. "Snorting was never any good…"

"How long has this been going on?" she repeated.

"Since I saw you and John Watson trying to eat each other's faces off," he replied sarcastically.

"Is it in my house?" she said slowly.

"Would it matter?"

"Yes, it does."

"Not like you'd ever find it."

"Get out," she commanded. "Don't take your things, just go. I'll call Scotland Yard in the morning and so help me, I'll turn this place upside down before I find it. Give me your keys," she fumed. "Now."

"This is my flat," he said with a laugh. "You can't kick me out of my own flat."

"Watch me. I'm the sole breadwinner. I have been for years. I've paid more rent on this flat then you ever have. Now give me your keys, all of them. I won't ask again."

"Where am I supposed to go?"

"Don't know, don't care. I stopped caring the minute you brought drugs into this house. I'm not going to be like Mycroft and go easy on you and send you to some posh rehab. You crossed the line. You can go sleep on the street for all I care. You obviously don't care about being a husband or a dad. I wonder what little Benjamin will think when I tell him Daddy fell off the bandwagon…" She held her hand out expectantly, waiting for his keys.

"Fine," he said, giving her a whole key ring, "but this isn't over."

"Yes, it is," she affirmed. "Now leave, and don't come back."

"Can I say goodbye to my son at least?"

"No. Not when you're like this. You're not going to hurt him."

"I won't hurt him," Sherlock emphasized.

"Still no. Now leave." She began to push him out the door as best she could before he eventually started walking out reluctantly. She followed him all the way out, protectively standing in front of the door to their son's room as Sherlock tried to peek in. She sat on the stairs a long time after he left, eventually falling asleep there.

A few streets away, John Watson woke up promptly at eight, stepping out to get the mail as usual, only to discover a sleeping Sherlock Holmes on the stairs immediately outside his flat.

"Oh, Sherlock…"


	7. Chapter 7

Over a month later, Sherlock and Emily were at the obstetrician's office, watching Emily get an ultrasound.

"They look incredibly healthy," the doctor observed. "Have you been taking it easy like I told you to?"

"Oh, yes sir," Emily replied, knowing that it wasn't entirely the truth.

"Now what are your thoughts on the delivery room? We need to come up with a birth plan soon. I think," the man said, reaching for a calendar, "we should probably just induce labor right around the nine month mark. They're very well-developed already, and that way you know what's coming," he said, smiling. "You're going to be at Bart's, same as last time, and I'm open the...18th? How about the 18th of December? Sound nice?"

"That sounds nice," Emily agreed, not even glancing at Sherlock. "The 18th of December, 2018. A week before Christmas. I like it."

"And Dad is going to be your plus one in the delivery room?"

Emily swallowed hard, hesitant. "I suppose. I mean, yeah."

"I will be," Sherlock affirmed.

"Okay, well, I'll be going now. I have triplets waiting," the doctor laughed. "The nurse will be in shortly. Be sure to rest!" he called as he bopped out the door.

Emily sighed, wiping the gel off her stomach. "You look well," she commented. "It's been six weeks. Where'd Mycroft send you?"

"He didn't," Sherlock answered. "But now that I'm clean, can I finally have a weekend with Benjamin?"

She ignored his question, answering with another. "Where are you staying?"

"With John Watson. You can give me the test if you want. I'd pass."

"I know you would." After almost seven years together, she could tell whether he was lying or not. "I called the lawyer yesterday. We're officially in a trial separation. One of the conditions to see Ben is that you have to pass a court ordered drug test and have a stable, 'healthy' place to live for when he visits you."

"I suppose the lawyer will call me when he needs it. Hopefully soon," he mumbled.

"Should be, yeah. What is taking that nurse so long?" Emily looked down at her watch, noting that it had only been about two minutes since the doctor had left them alone, but it had felt much longer. After a long, awkward pause, Sherlock spoke up.

"So….are you….seeing anyone?"

"Sherlock," she sighed. "No. Of course not. It's only been a little over a month since you moved out and I'm eight months pregnant. I'm not exactly in a dating kind of mood."

"You haven't taken your wedding ring off," Sherlock pointed out. "Considering the fact that your fingers are probably twice their normal size, the fact that you put effort into wearing your ring…."

"No. Don't." She pulled her ring off, dropping it down in her purse. "I was trying to minimize the number of questions people would ask me."

"I've been keeping mine on for an entirely different reason," Sherlock reminded her.

"Do you want a gold star?" she asked sarcastically.

"You want me to tell you about my 'feelings.' That is exactly what I am doing. Since my more subtle methods aren't working, I'll just cut to the chase. You're breaking my heart," he said quietly, looking down at the floor.

"Sherlock….we just aren't good for each other. Look at this past year. It's been miserable."

"I don't care. You are….the best thing that has ever happened to me."

"Sherlock…."

"It's true, no matter what you say." With that, he stood up and started to head out the door, pausing when his hand touched the knob.

"No," he said to himself. "No."

"What are you going on about?" she wondered.

"This." He was soon standing over her, bending down to put his lips on hers. She tried to resist at first, putting her hands up to stop him, then eventually gave in when she remembered how soft his lips were, how he always smelled of the same cologne and day old coffee. She put her arms around his neck, pulling him in even closer, feeling Sherlock smile against her lips. They only stopped when the nurse cleared her throat. Red-faced, they quickly parted, Sherlock sitting back down with a self-satisfied look on his face.

As soon as the nurse stepped out again, while Emily was gathering her things, he spoke once more. "I imagine Ben is with Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes…."

"They won't miss you if you were gone for a little while longer…."

She should've said no. Her head told her no over and over again, kicking at the walls of her mind. But somehow, two hours later, she was in John Watson's spare bed, lying next to Sherlock Holmes, out of breath and feeling better than she had in quite a long time.

"I've missed you," Sherlock whispered against her neck as he planted another kiss on her collarbone. "I love you."

She only smiled down at him, visibly disappointing the man. He tried his best not to let it show, choosing instead to get back to his occupation, marveling some more at his wife.

"I always said you looked the most beautiful when you were pregnant. You're glowing," he noted, trying to smile at her with the same smile she had always seemed to love over the years, all daft and a tiny bit nervous.

"Sherlock Holmes, why do you have to have such a way with words?" she mumbled.

"Stay the night," he implored.

"You know I can't," she replied gently. "What about Ben?"

"He can spend the night with Mrs. Hudson. It's not like he hasn't done it before."

"What am I supposed to tell him? Mummy is too busy with a booty call to tuck him in tonight?"

"I'll do it," Sherlock announced, reaching over her to get his phone.

"Sherlock…." she sighed, shaking her head.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock greeted. "How's book club?" He rolled his eyes as Mrs. Hudson chattered on about a new spy novel with a predictable ending. Sherlock started to tell her how it ended, but he decided it was better not to, instead getting to the meat of the matter. "Well….Mrs. Hudson, this is a….delicate matter, but, er, Emily, is going to be spending the night with me tonight," he said, faking nervousness so the woman would inevitably sympathize. "Is it alright if Ben stays with you tonight? Oh yes, she's fine. You want to talk to her?"

"Not while I'm naked," Emily mouthed as Sherlock shoved the phone at her. "Mrs. Hudson," she said, faking a smile that she hoped would make her forget about other matters. "Yes, it's fine if Ben stays the night with you. Oh, Molly's there with Sophie? Ben'll love that…it'll probably do him some good to spend some time with others for a bit. I think I'm driving him nuts," Emily admitted.

"You are," Sherlock whispered, then shrugged when he saw Emily's angry facial expression.

"Anyway..." Emily continued, "I hope it's alright with you. Thank you so much. What? Mrs. Hudson," she laughed. "I'll keep that in mind. Okay. Thanks again. Bye."

"Mrs. Hudson and I just had a talk about the best 'positions' for pregnancy….Never again," Emily sighed.

"Anything we could use?" Sherlock asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"I just left my child with someone else so I could have sex with my estranged husband…."

"You heard her. She was thrilled to have Ben stay over. Plus, Sophie is there, Mrs. Hudson was making biscuits….he'll have a good time. He loves it there."

"That's not the point," she reminded him. "First and foremost, I'm a mother."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed slowly as he put his phone back on the nightstand, sinking back in bed next to her. "But remember when you were a wife?"

She said nothing in reply, only closing her eyes and thinking. The whole situation – this night – would only end badly. Not because of Sherlock, but because of her. She loved him dearly, no matter what. She longed to have him back in their flat, in their bed, but somewhere deep down, she felt she didn't deserve it. He was _trying._ Sherlock Holmes – of all people – was trying to impress a woman, his wife, to make her fall in love with him all over again, and it was working. Just the sight of him when she walked into the doctor's office earlier that day had given her that familiar, cliché feeling – her heart beat faster, her stomach churning in a sea of nerves.

But she had gotten what she deserved. It was all karma, it had to be. She had been an awful partner – if she had truly cared about this man all those years ago, she would've never gotten involved with him. She was a train wreck waiting to happen, and he was just going to be a casualty. Some things she had done for herself – killing her father – or at least that's who she thought he was – in self-defense, and then protecting her identity in the years afterwards. Others she had done for her family, such as seducing Magnussen in order to get close enough for a kill. And then there were just stupid things she had done, like kissing John Watson or constantly arguing with Sherlock. She had even felt some sort of responsibility for her husband's renewed drug habit. Sure, she hadn't bought him the drugs or forced him to take them, but her kiss with Watson and yet another secret kept from him about who she really was, who her brother was, a secret she hadn't even known until recently, probably didn't help. She felt, at the end of the day, that she didn't deserve the man next to her. His mistakes would never be as great as hers, yet he still wanted her. And she knew better, she really did, but after her brief reverie, she turned over and gave her husband a kiss, choosing to ignore the false hope she gave both of them.

At 1 in the morning, when Sherlock was finally properly asleep, she carefully slipped out from under his arms, hastily putting her clothes on in the dark and grabbing her other belongings. The last thing she did, before stealthily sneaking out the door, was to kiss her husband's forehead, whispering a quiet, "I love you."

She had tried to be quiet when she came back to Baker Street, tiptoeing up the stairs as best a pregnant woman could. When she got to the living room, she switched on the light switch, almost screaming in terror when she saw a man sitting in the chair.

"I will call the police," she hissed. "So please, just leave before I have to. We can forget this whole thing before it even starts."

As she stepped closer, she recognized the figure in the chair, still waiting ever patiently. It was the man from the hospital, the man with the blue eyes.

"It's you," she said, almost as if he were some sort of revered figure.

"It's me," he affirmed, his Irish accent still thick. "I guess I don't really have to tell you who I am," he smiled, his eyes starting to tear up.

"You don't," she replied with a slight smile, sitting in the loveseat across from him.

"I would've, uh, rang the doorbell," he started nervously, "but I saw the girl from the morgue here, and I figured since I'm Jim's father, I might not be so welcome, so I just tiptoed up here when I thought no one was looking, and I figured I would just wait till you got home. Hello, I'm your father, and I'm a creep," he laughed anxiously.

"Well, hi, Dad," Emily greeted with a chuckle. "So, no pressure or anything, but I think you may have some 'splaining to do."

"Where did your mother take you to live? That accent.…" the man commented.

"North Carolina," she answered.

"Well, that would've been nice to know about thirty years ago…." He sighed. "Where do I even begin? Well, I guess, I should probably tell you my name for starters. I'm the, uh, elder James Moriarty. Well, I changed it back to my mother's maiden name, after Jim…you know. I met your mom, Colleen, when we were just teenagers. I loved your mother very much, and when she was around 17, she became pregnant with Jim, and we got married. About three years later, we had you. And it was when Jim turned five and went to kindergarten that we started noticing his behavior. He liked to play with matches, trying to set things on fire, beating up on all the other children. We thought he just needed discipline, but no matter what we did, he just got worse. One day, when he was six, we came home and found the family dog...lying in a pool of its own blood and Jim was right beside it, asking if we were proud….that's what did it. The next morning, you and your mother were gone. She just left a note saying that she was going to America and taking you with her, and that she was sorry, but I shouldn't try to find her. She sent me the divorce papers in the mail," he shrugged. "I heard she married a man named Paul, Paul McDonald?" Emily nodded, then he continued. "And she changed your name, too, so neither me nor Jim could ever find you. She only ever visited once, and she took you with her. We just happened to be at her mother's house when you arrived. You were 7," he smiled. "You played with Jim the whole afternoon. It was weird….he was a nightmare, but every time he saw his little sister, he was just the most gentle little boy, his eyes lit up."

"I remember that," Emily recalled. "We were over there at Nana's, and he and I played with my dolls. I've always wondered who that kid was."

"He remarked to me when he was a teenager that his only good memories ever consisted of his little sister. He said you were the only person to ever treat him with any kindness, any acceptance." The man shook his head. "I did everything I could for Jim. I really did. I took him to psychiatrists, to counselors, tried to get him involved in sports, in girls, anything. I let him do whatever he wanted one week, but when he ended up in a jail cell the next, I would crack down on him, then ease up again. It was a never-ending cycle until he finally went to university. He was an excellent student," he shrugged. "When he was on trial a few years back for all those robberies, I hadn't talked to him in at least ten years, his choice. I would've been there for him, but it was too late at that point. There was just something terribly wrong with him, and no one could ever quite figure it out. By then, I'd been remarried for about twenty years, I had another daughter. But I would've done anything to help him," he repeated, starting to tear up as Emily got up to pat him on the shoulder. "Did she at least give you a good home?" he finally asked.

"Yeah," she lied, figuring it wouldn't really matter now, anyway.

"That's good," he said, sniffling as she sat back down opposite him.

"You know," she started, "I moved to Ireland to take care of Nana in the last years of her life. How did I never run into you?"

"Your grandmother was always a good friend of mine, but after Jim went on his little crime sprees, she refused to talk to me. Said he had the Devil in him."

"Sounds like her," Emily nodded.

"How is she? Colleen, I mean."

"She's, uh, well, she passed away about ten years ago. I'm sorry," Emily said genuinely.

He simply nodded. "My wife passed away two years ago. I stayed in town all this time to visit my daughter," he explained. "Plus, I've been working up the courage to try and talk to you. I knew it was you from the moment I met you in the hospital. I'd know those blue eyes anywhere. I knew you were my little girl."

She smiled, then thought for a moment. "Was it….was it really him? In the morgue?"

"It was him," he affirmed. "That girl – Molly? – made me verify my identity, take a DNA test. It was definitely him. It was definitely my little Jimmy. You probably think I'm weird for saying that," he said nervously. "But you have kids. No matter what they do, deep down, you…you just never stop loving them, you know? I'm certainly not proud of what Jim did, but he's still my son. My mother always told me that I could turn out to be a serial killer and she'd still love me, and boy, the irony…"

"I know what you mean," Emily threw in.

"Your husband….he's the one who….did it?"

"Yes," Emily answered hesitantly.

"I'm not angry. I made my peace with Jim being dead a long time ago. From what I understand, he gave your husband one hell of a fight for a long time there, making him jump off a building, killing your friend a couple months ago….I understand why Mr. Holmes did it. And, in that situation, he was right to do it. I wouldn't take something like my friend being murdered right in front of me lightly."

"Thank you, really. That's probably not an easy thing to say," she admitted. "And my husband and I are getting divorced, anyway."

"Do I need to dole out my first bit of fatherly advice to you?"

"Please," she implored, nervously laughing.

"I'm just going to say this – what happened between your mother and I obviously didn't work out. But from a man who had a very happy second marriage and then lost it when his wife died, please, just listen to me, you really don't know how much you need someone till they're gone. You love him?"

"Very much so," she admitted.

"And he loves you?"

"Yes."

"Then why get a divorce? You have children together. Think of them. What could possibly be so bad that you need to get divorced and break up a family if you love each other?"

"I've….made a lot of mistakes recently. And I hate to see what it does to him. He's so quiet, off in his own little world most of the time. But I can tell when he's hurt. We've been together long enough that I know when he's upset and he doesn't even have to say a word. It takes a long time to get into that man's head, and it's wonderful and mad and brilliant in there, and I just hate to see him hurt and to know I'm the cause," she said, starting to cry.

"But he still loves you, you say."

"He's trying very hard."

"Then, if he still loves you, what's the problem? No one's perfect," he reminded her. "What's that cheesy '70s movie? _Love Story_? 'Love means never having to say you're sorry.' All you can do is try to be better, but you don't have to sacrifice anybody's happiness. I think he'd be a lot happier with you than without you. I am."

"Thanks, Dad," she nodded, noting how different this was from the relationship with her other 'Dad.'

"Just think about it," he told her, then looked at his watch. "3 in the morning. I should be getting up now at my age," he joked. "But I suppose this is just starting to making up for lost time, all those Hallmark moments we never had. I'd like to see you again while I'm still in town, if that's okay with you?"

"That's okay," she agreed, getting up to show him out.

"We'll all have lunch one day," he said, getting up. "You, me, and my daughter. She and I are kind of a package deal," he laughed.

"I'll take it," she smiled, seeing him on his way out.

After he had left, she quietly gathered her things back up and hopped a cab back over to John Watson's, using her key to get in, then silently crawling back into bed next to Sherlock, wrapping her arms around him, and being sure to say it kind of loudly this time, knowing he was a light sleeper: "I love you." She could see him smiling at her in the dark before drifting off to sleep for the night.


	8. Chapter 8

**I know it's been a while since I've updated, but hopefully this will make up for it. :)**

* * *

A few days later, Emily and her father were sitting across from one another at Baker Street, each sipping tea – decaffeinated for the former – while Sherlock sat next to his very pregnant wife on their loveseat.

"So, Mr…." Sherlock started, unsure of what to call the man, knowing that no one would want to share a name with the un-nameable.

"Campbell. But please, call me Jimmy," he invited. "If you're lucky, I may just let you call me 'Dad' one of these days," he joked.

"Right, so Mr. Campbell, what's your occupation exactly?"

"I'm a pilot," the man answered. "But not for much longer. I plan to retire next year. The old eyesight's getting rather bad…."

"That's a shame, really," Mrs. Hudson threw in, standing in the kitchen looking for something to dust. "I've got this bloody hip…."

"Don't get me started on my knees," he replied. "One of these days, I think they'll just put me down, like a horse."

"He's funny," Mrs. Hudson said to Emily with a laugh.

"Yes, that's why you've been up here at least half a dozen times," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"So, Dad," Emily began before anyone could react, "where do you think you'll be living when you retire?"

"Oh, I don't know. England seems nice. I'd have my girls here, and my grandchildren."

"Does your daughter have any children?" Emily wondered.

"Oh, no, she's still single for now. It's a running joke in the family that I'll probably get married again before she ever does. Just a joke." With that, the man turned around and winked at Mrs. Hudson, trying to be coy, much to the woman's delight.

Sherlock locked eyes with Emily, looking somewhat amused.

"Where's….Benjamin?" Jimmy asked Emily.

"He wanted to go to church today with his 'girlfriend' and her family," Emily answered.

"But you're not religious," Mrs. Hudson stated as she began out the door one more time, having failed at her cleaning endeavor.

"That child is not the slightest bit religious," Emily replied. "But he certainly isn't the first Holmes man to do silly things to try and attract the attention of the opposite sex," she teased, looking at Sherlock.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he retorted, looking away.

She rolled her eyes, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll stop saying that when you stop waking me up in the middle of the night every time you make another deduction."

"Never," he mouthed at her, standing up and going into the kitchen for another cup of tea.

"So, you worked things out I take it?" Emily's father inquired.

"We did. Thank you for that. Excuse me just one second. Do you want some more tea while I'm in the kitchen, Dad?" she asked, beginning the long journey to get up.

"Let me help you, dear." The older man struggled to get up as well, his arthritis acting up again.

"I got it, Dad," she said, finally standing up and slowly walking into the kitchen.

"What do you think? He check out?" she whispered to Sherlock.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "He's completely honest. He told us the truth about his job, his daughter, his eyesight and knees, and with the way he and Mrs. Hudson were looking at one another, I predict –"  
"Six months?"

"Thereabouts."

"You know, my hearing hasn't gone yet," they heard from the living room.

"Sorry, Dad," Emily started, stepping back into the living room.

The man simply held up a hand. "Don't apologize. I don't really blame you, with everything that's happened. But really, about Mrs. Hudson, I might just have to make that prediction come true…"

"We can maybe help with that," Emily smirked.

"Yes, she's certainly quite interested," Sherlock commented. "She's thought of at least 26 different ways to undress you already."

"Oh, my," Jimmy responded, smiling in spite of himself.

"And she conspicuously left her phone number on the kitchen counter, certainly not for us. Here you go." Sherlock handed his father-in-law the sticky-note, with a neatly scribbled mobile number and a smiley face on it.

"Well," Jimmy sighed as he got up, "I have to be going right about now, too. I think I'm going to make a phone call," he smiled mischievously. "Plus, I've got to meet the daughter at the cinema. It's that one about some stolen treasure…in India?"

"Totally solved that one," Sherlock interrupted, mumbling.

"You can come with us, if you want?" Jimmy invited.

"Oh, yes, to see them pissing my money away. I should be getting those royalties, not bloody Nicholas Cage…." Sherlock whined.

"Sorry, Dad," Emily cut in, "but we actually have to run some errands….but we're still on for lunch soon, right?"

"Of course, yeah," he replied, grabbing his coat and then hugging his daughter. "Now, don't be giving birth without me."

"I'll try," she laughed, stepping back for her father to shake Sherlock's hand.

"And….Mr. Holmes."

"Mr. Campbell."

"Do you like to golf?"

"No."

"Good. Neither do I. But I have a feeling there are two whisky sours down at the pub with our names on them. I'd love to hear about some cases one day."

"Alright," Sherlock agreed, wondering how the man figured out that whisky was his favorite.

"Well, 'till the next time. Thank you for the tea," Jimmy called, slowly working his way down the stairs.

After her father had been gone for a few minutes, Sherlock and Emily proceeded to go over to John Watson's, looking to move some more of Sherlock's things back to their flat.

Halfway through their endeavor, with Emily lounging on John's guest bed, Sherlock and John had to stop moving boxes back into the moving van while John took a phone call.

When he had finished, he calmly walked back into the room, asking for Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock hissed as John practically charged him, grabbing his arm and dragging the much larger man into the hallway.

"Mate – this is important. I….I….I'm going to be a Dad," John smiled, almost unbelieving.

"Aaksjrhfa….what?" was the only response.

"I….am going to be a Dad. Remember that girl I told you about, Janine?" John said slowly.

Sherlock nodded.

"She is pregnant. That's what she told me, just now, when I was on my mobile…."

"And….and it's yours?"

"Yes, it's mine," John affirmed. "Why are you acting so strangely?"

"Nothing. Just, are you….okay….after Mary?" Sherlock hated talking about these sorts of things.

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Good."

"Good. Nice chat. And if you don't mind, maybe let's tell Emily when she's a bit less pregnant and willing to snap me in two…."

"Maybe don't tell me what I should and should not tell my own wife. You don't own her," Sherlock pointed out.

"I never said I did….Sherlock, mate, are you okay?"

"Fine." He was thinking of many things, but refused to express any of them.

"Alright. Let's finish getting you moved, eh?" John said, ushering Sherlock back into the next room nervously, wondering if Sherlock somehow knew about what had happened between he and Emily months earlier.

"Oh, yes, he saw," Emily affirmed when John pulled her into his kitchen, asking her to help him with some leftovers for lunch.

"And he hasn't said a word."

"Not really. Wait, why do you think Sherlock was staying over here for a month? He certainly wasn't on holiday."

"Oh, Jesus." John shook his head. "I helped him get off of whatever that stuff was. Did we…was he doing that because of…?"

"He never said that. He never told me why. We haven't even talked about it, to be honest," she replied.

"But you and I both know…"

"I know, I know. He's never had a 'danger night' for as long as I've known him. This was the first time."

"Are you sure about that?" John cocked an eyebrow.

"Of course I'm sure."

"God – he's going to kill me. After….after what happened between you and him and Magnussen, he showed up on our doorstep a couple of times. Mary and I were scared to tell you. He made us promise not to."

"And you listened to a drug addict?!" Emily started to raise her voice.

"He promised to get clean, and as far as we knew, he did."

"What was it that time?" she whispered. "Morphine, cocaine?"

"Heroin," John said, looking down.

"John! He could've overdosed. You know the man likes to sleep on his back!"

"We kept him upright. He made us swear not to tell," he repeated. "He was just so….upset. I've never seen Sherlock like that. He said he thought you were going to leave him."

"Sherlock…" she sighed. "For a man who so desperately wants to feel nothing, I think he feels more than anyone I've ever met."

"He really did it this time," John assured her. "There was no self-pity, no whining. He got clean in days. I watched him like a hawk this time."

"And now I'll have to. It's like he's a child."

"You don't understand, do you?" John wondered.

"Understand what?"

"Something has to happen for Sherlock to get back on that shit."

"This isn't my fault," she defended, her eyes widening.

"I didn't say it was….maybe just….tell him you love him."

"I do, every day."

"Well, you're going to have to figure out some way to let him know you mean it."

Later that night, settled back into their bed for one of their very first nights back together, Sherlock lay there, going over a case. She read over his shoulder, thinking. Finally, she spoke up.

"You know it was Miss Scarlett, in the library, with a candlestick, right?"

"Insightful," he commented.

"I thought so," she smiled shyly.

"You're going to talk to me about either one of two things:

The John situation or

The Moriarty situation.

Correct?"

"Correct." No use in lying.

"Well, I could frankly care less about the fact that you are related to Moriarty. I'm related to Mycroft and you still married me," he quipped.

"Is that it?"

"Yes. I don't care. And about John, I suppose I can let that one go, too. What's done is done. It was a mistake."

"It was," she emphasized, noting that he didn't seem entirely convinced by his words.

"Alright then." With that, he started reading his case file again.

"Sherlock…." she interrupted.

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I know."

"Do you?" she asked.

"You married me, you've already given birth to one of my children, and you're going for two more any day now. I'd say so."

"But I'm not staying with you out of any sort of obligation. I want to."

"Yes."

"Alright then." With that, she got out her own reading materials and began to read, engulfing herself into, ironically, a mystery novel. She soon looked over, however, when her phone vibrated, a text from Molly telling her Benjamin had left his magnifying glass at her flat. With the sudden movement, she felt both of the babies inside her kicking softly. She finally got it when she made contact with her phone.

"John got that girl pregnant, didn't he?" she asked Sherlock.

"I was wondering when you'd figure that out," he replied coolly. "Instantly recognized the number, it wasn't one of us – and face it, we're practically the only friends he has – and he's not on call during the weekends. Spoke with a familiar "Hey," and afterwards kept smiling and looking nervous, all the signs of a new father-to-be. It was rather obvious. Still shocking, nonetheless."

"Eh, whatever," Emily said, waving a dismissive hand. "He and I went over this. We can't really stop him from anything. How far along?"

"Few months. They hadn't seen each other in a while. Obviously."

"Well, good for him," Emily replied, slightly disturbed but nonetheless accepting. "He's always wanted to be a Dad."

"Yes. I suppose I'll be having to teach him a few things in the coming months. When I have time," he added.

"When you have time," she agreed, then became silent once more. She was trying, but didn't have all too much to say. They were somewhere in that awkward space between comfort and discomfort.

"I've been thinking," he said, breaking the silence.

"Go on," she encouraged.

"I think we may need some changes around here."

"Like what?" she wondered, trying to play off her nervousness as curiosity.

"We need a bigger flat, for starters," he suggested.

"We don't have to, really," she insisted.

"I can't imagine having the twins sleeping in our room forever, and adding another room just isn't feasible with this floor plan. We….just need a new place. Mrs. Hudson included."

"Every home in England ought to include a Mrs. Hudson," Emily joked. "But I like that idea."

"Good, because I already bought a four bedroom semi in Greater London….and the other half too."

"Four bedrooms?" Emily was practically giddy.

"Yes, you know for guests. And in case we ever want to add one more to the brood."

"I can't even think about that," she laughed. "And Mrs. Hudson is in the other house?"

"Yes, same exact layout, only mirrored. That way, the children can go easily from one house to the next, and spend the night there, if they wish. And with the way things are looking with your father and Mrs. Hudson, he may just be next door."

"Whoa, now. One step at a time," she reminded him. "You sure you're okay with all these changes? A couple months ago, you said you wanted to die here."

"People always say and do silly things, don't they?" he questioned, narrowing his eyes at her, his reading glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose.

"I guess they do," she replied.

"They do all kinds of silly things," was all he said as he pushed his glasses back up on his nose, getting back to his reading.

"Mhmmmm," she yawned, putting her head on his chest as best she could, reading along with him, Sherlock patiently waiting to turn each page until his wife had finished, too.

* * *

On December the 18th, at 4 in the morning, Sherlock was scrambling around Baker Street, double checking bags and then rechecking them again and constantly adding more items.

Emily was standing calmly in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee.

"Sherlock!" she called, stepping into the nearly bare living room where her husband was dashing about. There was no point in being quiet, really. Benjamin had been trailing his father all morning and Mrs. Hudson had never even gone to sleep. Mycroft just sat there, in a chair, fast asleep with a newspaper to cover his face.

"What?" he practically hissed.

"Coffee?" she suggested, taking a sip out of his mug before delegating it to be suitable and handing it off to her husband.

"Right," he replied, yanking the cup out of her hands and downing it all in one sip.

"You think he'd be calmer this time," Mrs. Hudson said groggily.

"You'd think," Emily mumbled.

"Alright, the cab's outside, the bags are packed, I need more coffee, and Benjamin, put on your trousers," Sherlock commanded, stepping into the kitchen and just grabbing the entire coffee pot.

"We're ready, yes?" Emily affirmed.

"We're ready."

"You be good for Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft," Emily told her son as they dashed down the stairs. "Just think, you'll have two little sisters soon, and most of our things are at the new house already. It'll be exciting!" she encouraged.

"Yeah, yeah," was the only response she received before her little boy kissed her on the cheek goodbye as she and Sherlock hopped into their awaiting cab.

After about eight hours, an exhausted Emily held one of her newborn daughters while Sherlock held the other, quietly smiling as the doctors finally gave them some privacy with their girls.

"You name one, I name the other?" Emily asked sleepily.

"Deal," he agreed, gently rocking the child in his arms.

"Rachel Mary," Emily declared.

"Georgina Elizabeth," Sherlock replied.

"Rachel and Georgie. I like it," she commented. "Wanna switch?"

Sherlock gave his wife one daughter while she gave him the other, secretly dying to hold both of them.

"They both look just like you," Sherlock observed.

"I can already see your hair turning gray," she smiled. "I'm not going to lie, we may have to mark one of their backs in order to tell them apart."

"No, no. See that little birthmark on the back of Rachel's neck?" He delicately held his daughter up to the light. "Georgie doesn't have that."

"Ahhh, I see it." She grinned at him. "We did quite a good job, Mr. Holmes."

"I concur, Mrs. Holmes," he agreed, taking his daughter in one hand and using the other to stroke his wife's hair.

"I didn't call you too many curse words this time, did I?" she teased.

"Nothing I don't hear every day from complete strangers."

She smiled, wondering when she would be able to feel her lower half again as she fell asleep, little Georgie laying on her chest.

* * *

The next day, after mother and babies were all given clean bills of health, Sherlock and Emily were quietly leaving the hospital, Benjamin in tow.

"Can I hold one?" Benjamin asked for the seventh time.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed. "Which one do we not care about dropping?" he asked Emily.

"Neither," she replied. "If you're so insistent on holding one, we can stop right here and you can sit down and gently hold one of your sisters for a few minutes," she told her son as they got to a waiting room that contained both John Watson and Emily's father, unknowingly sitting across from each other.

"I thought we would all see each other at Baker Street," Sherlock stated, reluctantly handing Rachel to Benjamin.

"Cradle the head," Emily instructed.

"Well, I figured I'd see both my daughters while I was here," Jimmy answered. "My other daughter's shift should end soon." He reached out and picked up Georgie out of her stroller. "Doesn't hurt that these two are here."

"And I was just waiting around for -" John Watson stopped mid-sentence, standing up as a nurse came walking towards him.

"Janine," both John and Jimmy greeted, then looked at each other.


End file.
